Damned be the Walled in Grey

A portal is always open on every wall, leads here nor there. More so everywhere. You’ll make lots of new friends. Echoes, whispers, some pitter-patter here, a scatter there. It’s clear it’s in my head when it echoes, bouncing about the confines of the skull. Always unclear of the whispers. They’re outside but close, almost feel a light breath on the ear. The patter and scatters always cause a jump. They can be down the hall, a few feet away, or right beside. Crawling to a corner, back to a wall. They’re never consistent. Some days it sounds like fingers tapping, others it sounds like sprinted steps. Thumps in a row growing with a pounding thud as they sprint towards. Those grey walls, they talk. Twenty-six years here and you get to know them quite well, they get to know you better. All the things done, the things pondered. That’s where it hooks. Poor decisions end up in bad places. Thoughts of inhuman acts bring you here. We’ve all wanted to do some terrible things, pictured ourselves taking those actions and felt it. It’s as if that dead grey wall is a mirror. It’s hard to take pride in the reflection. Each and every crack and divot in that damned wall holds a tale, a memory, a lust. Haven’t left this room in twenty-four years. There are no books, no television. Aside from the tales told by the walls, the only entertainment is tunneled woes of fellow inmates bellowing from their cells. They’re ghastly, but nothing compared to the hushed voices beside, inside, and around. Feeling an attraction, they’re your voices aren’t they? Wanting to know what they say, but most days relishing in not. Then they whisper their sweet nonsense in the left ear, and the obscenities float and boomerang around to the right. The middle is always the hardest to make out. It’s as if you’re looking at a person lacking a body, but even their head and feet are smeared. Like a stubborn marker on a whiteboard that just won’t quite erase. In the morning they’re the calmest. At night they act far more erratic. It would be nice to know if it's day or night. The food served follows no structure, no routine. Some days to starve, others to not touch the food when it’s granted. In all the time spent in this wretched grey void, nothing has ever changed. That is until today.

You get a lot of meals being here this long, always the same. Mashed potatoes, chicken, and asparagus. Today, a box neatly wrapped in brown paper sat where the mashed potatoes should be. Not hungry to begin, leave the food for later. Transfixed on this new development in a world so routine to have lack there of. Such perfect, seamless wrapping. A calming surface. Would I want to tear something so beautiful? How much time had gone by? Minutes? Hours? Hard to tell. What can be assumed is that box held something, but what if Pandora’s box couldn’t be closed. To be able to open of one’s own volition. That cell door has been closed for eons and it may never open. On the other hand, this prison that boxes has forced a brain to open to unfathomables. The wall that enclosed shelter was cast God knows where. To be able to close it? The things portrayed by this matte expanse is limitlessly riveting. Sometimes it’s good to have limits. This box, This smooth, well-edged prism that sits on the tray. If opened, what lay inside may hold this room forever.

One constant thought in mind is even more infuriating than the miscellaneous caverns that are traveled of usual. Curiosity wins, tear the paper with such a satisfying separation, so crisp. With the flaps open the putrid odor quickly overpowers the room. A dead frog. Split down the middle, the incision looks more like a tear. Its tongue hangs out the side, its eyes still wide open. Staring so intently, it clicks. The box drops with another sound, a shriek. That frog holds history. It lay crooked off the edge of the box, its hand reaching into the room. The eyes, uninhabited. They look off to the left, but they take hold. I looked into those eyes at eight years old. At the park with family. That frog wandered far from its safety, easy to corner it against a rock. Just want to know what’s inside. Using a blunt stick to cut him down the middle. He squirmed but a pinky could break every bone in his body. The wall puts on a show depicting a woman undergoing surgery. The anesthetic didn’t work. The doctors see an unconscious state, but I hear her blizzarding cries, they bounce about like bats. That steel door keeps me from getting out, but it keeps nothing from getting in.

The next day spent in standard fashion. Not inferring the grey shirt and pants. Lying on the bed staring at the ceiling. The frog's face looks back, taking full range of the evenly toned walls. Grey all around. Grey. There’s a little grey area in between, that’s called home. On the back of my head, an array of small moist hands slither through. Just wipe it off. It keeps crawling so a slap. It’s gone. Is it possible to curl into a bawl so small you phase from existence? A small circle of sawing teeth naw through my skin. There’s nothing to grab! The skins being put through a shredder, instinct whips the head into the solid concrete behind. Waking up what felt like seconds later, the tray had returned. No chicken or mashed potatoes on the platinum platter. Another brown box, tantalizing with its mysteriously alluring possibilities. It’s crushed in my grip, a sharp pain goes through the hand with a needle seen from the other side. The box hangs without my assistance. Pulling it out burned. The cardboard contained a gold hoop earring. It’s recognized instantly.

Back in the land of the living, a wife shared the bed every night. Knowing her since high school, she had such strong roots in my heart. There was another woman, she tutored my son. Picturing them both gives feral rage to the rats that digs through my chest. She was a great teacher. The kid’s grades and confidence excelled. She held a lot of pride in my boy. With wine and the family away, the room needed some action. If only humans could be happy with what they have. Shovel as much as you can into the void, it will only feast and grow. The attempted mistress wasn’t interested, that gold held her ear better than the words.

A piercing pain stings my earlobe, then stabs the neck, spears the shoulder. Brushing, no scratching. The matches continue to light everywhere, like stars in the night. A coffin of nails cloaks. The blanket offers no protection, rolling on the floor rids nothing. A hundred wasps swarm around, staying just out of reach until they can ram their fencing swords into the tender skin. A thousand ants sink their long pincers deep within. But it doesn’t matter what state you are in, sleep will come eventually.

The grey area performs its daily show. Mario going down a long array of boxes. Straight as an arrow, enjoying the ride. With a scratch of metal on the concrete floor, it’s clear something waits. There is no food on the tray. The meals from days past have only been reaping decay anyways. What isn’t comforting is the brown paper box atop its silver platform.

“Please! Please! I can’t take the sight! It’s watching, calling! There’s nothing else, you can’t say no to the box, it’s all that is! Don’t let it be all that will ever be!” Screaming to someone, anyone, “Take it back! Please, take it back!”

There is nowhere to go, there is no one to call. You may be bigger than the box, but are you bigger than what’s inside?

How did I get here?

Two guards listen to the echoed howls of inmates. Hear a rhythmic bass as a prisoner uses his forehead like a woodpecker. The scrapes as one claws at the grey wall, taking the flesh from his bones. The wall is no longer grey. The one that just laughs. The cells are lined with the weakened wails of humans with so much in their minds, it is no longer their own mn. The guards lean against the wall, with a sigh one asks.

“Why’d we start giving them boxes?”

“It’s all part of the plan, Rick.”

“What do you think is inside them?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think, only what they know.”